Sleepless Nightmares
by Gibbersnap
Summary: A short story beginning from a 4 AM scene: Sirius is awake and tortured by the knowledge that Remus means more to him than any friend. Finished.
1. Sleepless Nightmares

((Author's Note: Because this doesn't make any sense without the idea behind it, the basic premise is this: Sirius, extremely homophobic, has realized he is attracted to Remus as more than a friend. I'm not yet sure how he came to that conclusion (o_o No. Stop those thoughts) or whether I intend to continue this- it's simply a scene I wrote a while ago and decided to post here.))

***

Remus wasn't quite fully conscious until he had reached the bathroom and finished what he'd gone there to do; the deep, absolute sleep that overtook everyone at the hour of 4 AM was still clinging to his brain, fogging his thoughts and making him hurry back through the darkness to his bunk in hopes to return to it. There, however, he was stilled by a muffled sob from the bunk next to his, a startling and jarring note in the room full of restful breathing (or, if you happened to be one Peter Pettigrew, the kind of snoring that could only be reached when the snorer's face was buried securely in his pillow, preferably with open mouth).

"...Sirius?" Remus said quietly, tentatively. There was little fear of waking anyone else in the room, but the situation called for that soft, uncertain tone that comes just above a whisper.

"I'm... nightmare..." Sirius said, clearly straining stubbornly for a steady voice. He failed, and dissolved into sobs once more (these the kind that the sobber intentionally buries in a pillow, open mouth optional but usually involuntary).

The werewolf moved somewhat clumsily through the darkness, hands groping for a bedpost. He found it and latched on, sinking onto its respective bed, Sirius', with relief. Whatever people might say about his kind's night vision, Remus' was nearly nonexistent. "Do you want to talk about it?" he offered, unsure of what else to say.

"No!" The reply was immediate and nowhere near whispered, but the sleepers slept on, taking no notice. Peter was probably going to have a sore throat tomorrow.

"All right... um," Remus said, thinking hard. "That bad?" He reached blindly for his friend's shoulder, only finding an arm by mere coincidence.

Sirius flinched away, now using the pillow almost as a shield. "Don't- don't touch me!" he said shakily.

Remus withdrew his hand quickly, perplexed, and the two sat in silence for a moment until the pillow abruptly became a muffler once more. What on earth, he wondered, could make Sirius upset enough to shake the bed with sobbing? Or, for that matter, upset enough that one of his best friends couldn't touch him, let alone comfort him? The two were nearly brothers. They'd shared countless wrestling matches, countless hours lazing around and studying -those actions, of course, were each specific to only one of them, and related only by their simultaneity-, countless touches, from hugs of comfort or joy to punches, playful and angry. What could be wrong enough to remove that?


	2. Silent Questions

**((Author's Note: this is not yet finished. There's more I want to write, but don't ever seem to be in the right mood for, and rather than give a compromised product, I wanted to wait. **

**Despite that, this is already twice the length of Chapter One and then some, so I thought maybe I'd post it and get some reactions.))**

Disclaimer: We all know.

There was a schedule to Remus' life. At home, in past years, he would usually drift toward waking slowly, gently, eventually becoming more conscious of his environment until he'd open his eyes, slip out of bed and, in the way of many small children, adopt a silent, tentative manner. Barefoot, he would pad his way out into the kitchen, quietly taking in his still, restful surroundings and the not-quite-silent air of a sleeping (or partially sleeping) household just before dawn.

Eventually, as his parents adjusted to his waking time, Remus would pad into the kitchen to find his father awake, with a mug of faintly steaming coffee and a paper. John Lupin would greet his son with a wink, and shuffle into the kitchen again -never as adept at silent movement as any small child- to tap this, stir that, and return with hot chocolate. In time, it was the smell of coffee and the quiet scuff of slippers on tile that first stirred Remus toward the start of his day.

Many people lose their ability to rise with the sun as they begin to lose their childhood, preferring instead to burrow, sprawl, and sink deeper into their beds as morning approaches- often whether they had been awake for the first moments of a day -and perhaps many after- or not.

As Remus Lupin was the one in every handful who never failed to wake just before six, his schedule changed at Hogwarts: still, he would be awake as the glow of morning chased night from the sky, but he found little to do with himself. On his first morning at school, cautiously parting the curtains around his bed, he was greeted with the firmly-shut, sometimes faintly twitching curtains of his dorm mates. He had shivered in the morning's chill and wormed back into his bed to wait and stare vacantly at the room.

After a few days, he had learned better. He'd learned to fish a book out of his trunk, and he'd learned that it didn't necessarily matter how loudly he went about it-- or, discovered on day five, whether or not he dropped the book on the floor.

After a week, he'd learned never to let your classmates catch you up before them and reading, of all things, a textbook. He never was sure if Peter (apparently in dire circumstances involving the need to use the restroom on day nine) remembered the incident, but his disbelieving stare had been enough to set flame to Remus' cheeks, snap his bed curtains shut, and teach him better.

So it was that, within a few weeks, Remus had learned to rise, dress, and read until the rising sun and its resulting square of sunlight on his bed had pushed him up against the wall next to his bed, then shut the book, stow it in his trunk, and scamper downstairs to breakfast. At that time, it was populated only by NEWT or very desperate OWL students, as well as Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore. The latter would smile at him, eyes twinkling as if the two shared a joke, and say, "Ah, Mr. Lupin. Another early riser- welcome."

* * *

"Ah," said Dumbledore, eyes simultaneously twinkling in silent laughter and bringing to light the deepest parts of one's soul for personal, in-depth examination. "Mr. Black. An unusual time to see you."

Sirius mumbled something that could have been a g'morning or possibly a "please eat your beard," and slumped into a chair at the Gryffindor table. Those students who weren't irretrievably lost in their books smirked, waved, or gaped incredulously at him, but he had eyes only for the coffee pot.

What a hell of a night.

* * *

Remus couldn't remember a time (there never had been a time) that Sirius had been up and gone before he'd blinked his way awake, and the fact that he seemed to have done it brought the previous night's events rushing back. As they crept over his bright, refreshed morning feeling, slowly poisoning it, another thought struck: what if Sirius never had gone to sleep? What if he wasn't up and dressed now, but-- somehow, worse?

He'd been in an awful state, Remus remembered, eyes wildly sweeping over his friend's unkempt bed and trunk (no worse than normal, of course). Stubbornly sobbing, stubbornly insisting he wasn't, and sobbing all the more for every comfort or friendly hand offered. Remus had finally given in to the pounding in his temples and returned to bed, shaken.

Now he leapt up, fumbling for robes and wand, muttering curses and summoning charms alternately, all the while thanking the heavens for a dorm full of heavy sleepers. He pounded down the stairs and out the portrait hole, leaving the dorm's door ajar and the Fat Lady squawking about rude, rude students who simply _had_ to run about at all hours.

By the time Remus reached the Great Hall, his breathing was ragged and quick, paralleled by mental curses of every sort upon himself for not remembering the Map. _A teacher_, he told himself brokenly, overwhelmed by the need for more speed and, consequentially, more air and athletic skills than he seemed able to draw upon. _If he's not there... at least I can get... a teacher_.

He came to a halt at the doors to the Great Hall and promptly melted with the relief of tension he didn't know he was carrying. There, as he observed while sagging against the door frame, was Sirius, nursing a cup of coffee with so sullen an air that he'd vacated all the seats around him.

Smiling weakly to Dumbledore's benign smile and welcome, Remus made for the Gryffindor table, sliding into a seat beside Sirius. As though reacting by law of nature, Sirius rose as he sat, loudly proclaiming to have forgotten his Transfiguration book, and left, meeting Remus' eyes once as he did.

His eyes were hardened- cold pieces of grey flint, and Remus could feel a message pass from them to his own: _Shove off, Remus Lupin. And last night... stays between us._

_* * *_

Sirius had eaten the Marauder's Map. He must have, Remus thought furiously. It would explain why he couldn't find it- or, for that matter, find Sirius. If Remus took a passageway, it was Sirius-free. If he scouted out a common meeting place, the most he could hope to catch was a retreating outline of one -apparently indescribably busy- Sirius Black. And during the classes they shared... if Remus was early, Sirius was late. If Remus risked execution by way of tardiness from McGonagall, he'd find Sirius in the classroom seated, and chatting up another student like he'd known them forever.

He was as slippery as an oiled fish, harder to catch than Peter on a midnight kitchen mission. As many times as Remus tried to corner and confront him, Sirius would simply dodge. It was more than enough to say, _Give up._ Give up. Remus would have gladly given up- ask James, send Sirius a note, wait this out, whatever it was. Nevertheless...

It was hard to just give up, to ignore someone who couldn't ignore you. Remus would have wholeheartedly tossed the idea to the winds if Sirius would have. For in every class, in the hallways, at lunch, he'd feel a gentle prickle at the nape of his neck, look up, and catch a millisecond of grey eyes trained to him before they'd harden, freeze solid, and glance sharply elsewhere- or perhaps a wisp of black hair gently suspended in turning away.

It was enough to drive any student mad, and it kept Remus doggedly following Sirius long past the point of reason, trying ineptly to catch him and squeeze a response from him. _What do you want?_ He pleaded it, screamed it, begged it a thousand times in silence, and was a thousand times ignored.


	3. Accusations

_Author's Note: Chapter three will be the final in this (admittedly short) story. If I happen to feel very, very inspired, that may change- but it's unlikely. To me, it feels done._

_I do apologize for taking so long to put this up. The truth is that I wrote it a long time ago, then lost the file. Since I usually don't re-write something I've already explored, I had to find it before posting it here. :P Enjoy._

* * *

"Snapdragon," Remus said shortly.

The Fat Lady did a double-take and burst into peals of laughter. "My, dearie!" she said, clutching a meaty hand to her chest. "Oh... oh, _my_."

"Snapdragon," Remus repeated, allowing the day's frustration to tinge his voice, and the portrait swung open, giggling afresh. Cursing her mentally, he tried to climb through without touching his robes- unsuccessfully, and he winced when a little more of the soaked fabric clung to his back.

Curse Peter. Even if a bit of spilled juice would have given him an excuse to follow Dark-hair-Dark-mood-Dark-glances, Remus didn't appreciate the whole damn pitcher down his shirt. That, he supposed, was Peter. He telepathically picked up on one's wishes and tossed them over a cliff.

Worse- it had probably been an accident.

Curse Peter. Curse Peter, curse James for his odd, what-have-you-done-to-Sirius glances (and the teachers for those, as well), and curse Sirius for... being Sirius.

Especially that, Remus thought, stopping where he dripped on the crimson carpeting. You search all day for Sirius, try your best, then! when you're tired and worn and covered in juice, there he is. Remus' eyes followed him up the stairs, then, wordless, so did he. _I want a __shirt__, _he told himself through the grinding of teeth. _I want a __shirt__, I want to __shower_, _and I want to __sleep._

He shoved the door open without knocking; it made a satisfying thud against James' bed. By the window Sirius whirled, eyes blazing. "What do you _want?"_ he demanded.

A shirt, Remus' brain snarled, and he did not reply.

It infuriated Sirius. "Tell me what you want, Lupin," he said, dropping his voice to a dangerous hiss.

It was far too much. "Me!" Remus said innocently, then laughed. It tore at his throat, raw and angry. "Me, Sirius, why, nothing, Sirius!" His voice changed, and words came pouring from him.

"I don't even know why you'd ask me that question. No, I've only been trying to talk to you all bloody day and night. Because I'm concerned. Because I'm your friend!" He flung the word at Sirius. "Just pencil me in for next week, why don't you? No!

"Get this, Sirius. I want to know that you're okay. You think you can scare the hell out of me and then disappear, just- I didn't even know what had happened. You could have been _dead_, how you were acting, and - why do you think you can just do that? Why?

"So ask yourself that question, Sirius." He realized he was shouting, gesturing and flinging sodden robes here and there about him. "What do you want?"

Sirius had stopped, stilled and deadened. Good, thought Remus furiously, but he began to move again, pacing the room wildly.

"What do _I_ want," he snarled, "You don't want to know what I want." He turned again, tearing his fingers from where they'd been angrily raking through his hair. He raised one arm, shaking with rage, and leveled a finger at Remus' chest. "You don't fucking want to know what I want," he screamed, and lunged forward.

Remus backed away, in awe and terror at this Sirius, so unlike his friend, so unlike the boy who'd sat sobbing -just there- a lifetime ago. It was no use and Sirius, terrible rage and confusion, pinned him against the wall. One fist, twisted in wet robe, held him there and the other seemed to hang, suspended in useless, furious motion. "You don't," he was still screaming, "You don't, you don't, you don't-"

Their eyes met and silence fell, time froze them together into a mad, senseless tableau. Sirius was breathing hard, his eyes completely panicked. Without warning, something flickered and they became terrible.

He's going to kill me, Remus thought wildly, he'll kill me. His own anger had evaporated and he strained helplessly against the non-Sirius, head rolling in fear and mouth forming silent, desperate pleas. His eyes flickered closed, waiting for impact, for death.

Then-

Only for the briefest instant, a pair of trembling lips met his own.

Then-

nothing. Dimly he felt himself released and he slid to the floor, bringing a finger to his mouth in confusion.

_I'm not dead,_ he realized after a moment, then, _Sirius-_

"Sirius-" Remus rose, scrambling to knees and awkward feet. "Sirius!"

But he was gone.


End file.
